


Mercy

by angesradieux



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Face Slapping, Friendship, Gen, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27803536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angesradieux/pseuds/angesradieux
Summary: "He sees his master's fingers twitching. He wants to strike again, but for now he restrains himself. It's a small thing, but it gives Athelstan hope. God help him, he cares for this man, despite knowing he ought not to. Perhaps Ragnar may yet prove him wrong and show the monk that there is something in him that can still be redeemed."Athelstan can no longer deny that he's come to care for Ragnar. He works to make sense of his feelings and understand his relationship with his master.Set during Season 1 Episode 6
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Okay. So I can't be the only one who got whiplash from the Athelstan/Ragnar dynamic in this episode. It also irritates me that Ragnar never really addresses the fact that Athelstan saved his life. But then again, I think pretty much every episode could benefit from a little more Athelstan in it. Anyway, here's my attempt at contextualizing the relationship between Ragnar and Athelstan such as it as at this point. Hope you like it! Comments are always very much appreciated.
> 
> Cross posted on FF
> 
> ~Anges

A cry of concern pulls itself from his lips as the Earl lands a blow. None are more shocked by it than Athelstan himself. Wide, blue eyes follow the path of his master’s blood as it drips to the ground. He feels a hand on his shoulder—Floki’s—and while at first it makes him jump, he finds himself relaxing into the touch, grateful.

“The gods are smiling on him. He will be alright.”

He swallows thickly. It's true, a lesser man might have succumbed to his injuries days ago rather than rising to challenge the Earl to single combat. He can only nod. His mouth is too dry to speak. Somewhere, though, in the back of his mind he can’t help but wonder why he cares. _Does_ he care? This is the man who murdered his brothers in cold blood, desecrated the altar of his home and stolen everything he could carry. He’d brought Athelstan across the sea, far away from his quiet and peaceful life, and made him a slave. He shouldn’t be sorry to see him gone.

And yet as the Earl swings at him again, the monk’s heart just about leaps into his throat.

He’d said he had forgiven Ragnar. But has he also come to actually _care_ for him?

He dove into the water after him to stop him from drowning, true. But he’d stubbornly dismissed that as concern for Gyda and Bjorn, who shouldn’t have had to watch their father die before their eyes. He’d done it for the children, not for Ragnar. Some part of him he refuses to acknowledge knows that he hadn’t had the time to think it through that carefully. Instinct had driven him into the water the moment he’d seen Ragnar’s body fall and in that split second, he’d had presence of mind enough only to think of his master. But even if he knew it to be true, he hadn’t been ready to admit it.

Now, though, there is no question. His eyes are not on Bjorn or Gyda, or even Lagertha. They are fixed on the battle unfolding before him and the hushed prayer on his lips is for Ragnar. If there remained any doubt at all, it vanishes in the way his face crumples with relief when it is finally over.

“Hail Earl Ragnar!”

The voice belongs to Siggy. The raw anguish causes his breath to hitch. His master has killed a man and Athelstan… Athelstan is _glad_ for it. What must his God think of him now? Tears prick the corners of his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall.

Athelstan takes his cues from those around him, sinking to his knees. He offers his own soft, “Hail Earl Ragnar,” as he blinks the wetness away. He is relieved. But also sick and exhausted and spent. He wants to go out into the woods to be alone. To rest and to think. To try to make sense of his life, and to just _not feel_ for a little while. Yet, he doesn’t flee. Whether it’s by choice or simply because he can’t, he couldn’t say.

He remains kneeling after others have begun to rise, fearful he won’t be able to find his feet again. He just closes his eyes and tries to remember how to breathe. “Come! Let us congratulate our new earl.” He is guided to his feet by Floki and shepherded along. “We shall see how generous he is with his ale.” Athelstan doesn’t speak, wordlessly allowing himself to be guided back to his master. The monk seems more shaken by the whole ordeal than even Ragnar’s family, with his pale face and eyes wide as an owl’s. His chest heaves with each breath.

Ragnar claps him on the shoulder. His hand lingers, their eyes meet, and Athelstan manages a timid smile.

“Come. You need a drink.” An arm drapes itself around his shoulders and suddenly Athelstan’s master is leaning on him rather more heavily than he’d bargained for. He doesn’t complain—it doesn’t even occur to him that he ought to.

“And you need rest.” For a moment, he forgets himself. He remembers when his master stops and their eyes meet. He freezes, bracing for a blow.

Instead, he’s greeted with a rueful smile. “Perhaps you’re right. But later! First, we celebrate.”

His master is surrounded by friends and family and Athelstan fades into the background, alone with his thoughts. The hall is loud, but he withdraws into himself and is able to find a moment of quiet within his own heart. He pays little mind to anyone else in the room, his eyes tracking Ragnar’s movements in silent observation. Athelstan has at least admitted with the fact that he cares for this man, in some fashion. And yet he doesn’t yet understand how to explain it, or even how it has come to pass.

Nor does he yet know what that says about him.

Ragnar sees little of his priest the following day. Not by design, but by necessity—there is much to be done. He is Earl now, after all, and the burden falls heavy upon him. And, too, there is a funeral to prepare for. On that count, Athelstan has been surprisingly diligent. His priest has avoided sitting idle, instead lending his hands to any and every task that needs tending. After he’d brought his slave to see the Earl, seeking permission to raid England again, days had gone by in which the man would barely even set foot in the house. He hid behind the façade of a dutiful slave, citing fear of the same fate that had befallen his brothers when pressed.

But really, work was simply a shield. He’d been avoiding his master then, and Ragnar knows Athelstan is avoiding him now.

He is a patient man. He watches and waits for his chance. The rain brings with it opportunity as Athelstan stands beneath an overhang, hesitating. Before he can make the decision to go out into the rain, Ragnar is at his side, slinging an arm over his shoulders to keep him in place. For once, the priest doesn’t flinch away from his touch like a kicked dog. Instead, Ragnar’s greeted with a smile.

“May I ask you something?”

Ragnar’s eyes narrow a fraction and he sees the apprehension creeping across his slave’s face. Perhaps they’re both thinking back to the last time he’d posed that question. But beneath the hesitance, there’s something else. His expression is still warmer than it’s ever been before, as if he sees Ragnar as more man than wolf. He gives a nod.

“Earl Haraldson was your enemy, was he not? He burned your home and would have seen you dead.” His brow creases and his attention drifts to the ongoing preparations. “Why, then, do you give him such a funeral?”

There’s something searching in his voice. He’s asking for a reason, but not one Ragnar can discern. He pauses, taking his time to consider. “Yes, he was my enemy. But, he was also a great man. Loved by some, difficult though it may be to imagine. For all his failings, he has earned a show of respect.” His arm drops from Athelstan’s shoulders and delivers a friendly punch to the shoulder. “Come, I want to show you something.”

His priest obeys. There’s another question on his lips—Ragnar sees it in the crease of his brow and the way he bites his lower lip, and he hears it in the way he inhales. But he refrains, for now, waiting to see where Ragnar is bringing him.

The air in the tent is heavy with herbs and mead. A young woman reclines, singing and wobbling to and fro, too drunk to stay upright. She giggles as she raises a cup to her lips.

“She is one of Earl Haraldson’s slaves.” Ragnar answers the question before it’s been asked. “They were all asked if they would like to die and go to Valhalla with their master. She has agreed.”

“She wants to die?”

Athelstan purses his lips a little, eyes shifting from Ragnar to the slave girl. His fingers twitch and Ragnar sees the way his jaw tightens. A miscalculation, then. His motives had been twofold. First, he’d thought it prudent to prepare the priest for what was to come. Perhaps on this count, he has at least not failed. But, too, the girl had not been forced. She’d volunteered of her own will, and he’d thought perhaps it might explain better than he could. There was no love lost between Ragnar and Haraldson, but there were some who were devoted to him, and that was worth honoring.

“Priest!”

It’s too late. Athelstan turns to leave. He doesn’t stop nor spare so much as a glance over his shoulder at the sound of his master’s voice.

Even in their mercy, there is cruelty. Even in death, these men can call for blood to be spilled. At first, Athelstan had been curious to see what was done for a heathen’s funeral. And, too, perhaps he’d hoped that this show of compassion might help to ease his guilt over the companionship he can no longer deny he feels towards his master.

Now, he just feels sick with dread, and he can’t stop thinking. Why? Why would Ragnar show him such a thing? His lip curls in a bitter sneer. Why else? His master makes sport of putting him in his place. This is just another show of power, a chance to make it clear just how little a slave’s life is worth. Killed without a thought as a funereal sacrifice to their heathen gods.

Is that what would have become of him, he wonders, if Ragnar had lost?

His master has flaunted his power over him before. It’s made him angry, made him chafe against his enslavement. But this time it _hurts_. That is new.

No one seems to notice his sullen disposition. They’re too busy drinking and fighting, and besides, he’s just Ragnar’s Christian slave. So far beneath their notice it’s a wonder they see him at all rather than looking straight through him. He becomes significant only when he holds a pitcher of ale or mead and someone’s cup has run dry.

Even if no one else notices, Bjorn does. It comes as a shock to the monk when the boy takes him by the arm with an unusually affable, “You need a drink, Priest.” He’s smirking, regarding Athelstan with a bemused humor more appropriate for a clumsy puppy. Perhaps Bjorn has come to regard him as more a pet than an intruder.

“Drink,” he prompts as the ale horn remains untouched in the monk’s hands. But Athelstan is tired of drinking. Is that the answer to _everything_ here? Just keep the ale flowing until all problems are forgotten in a drunken haze? Either that, or the solution comes with the swing of an axe. Athelstan doesn’t much care for either.

“I said drink!” The boy barks at him and for a moment looks as though he might strike. He doesn’t have the energy to fight, so he raises the horn to his lips.

Before he can take a second sip, something else grabs his attention. He sees the slave girl Ragnar had shown him and feels his stomach lurch. Is it not enough the girl has to die? What more could they be doing to her? “Bjorn? What’s going to happen to her?”

“She’s going to have sex.” Bjorn’s bluntness never fails to catch the monk off guard. There is a glint of malice in his eyes that made it clear that although Athelstan may have become something of a pet, he hasn’t quite gotten over his initial dislike of the man. “As they do, all them men will say ‘tell your master I do this out of love for him,’ since she will be in Valhalla with him soon.” The pat he gives Athelstan’s arm doesn’t seem intended to comfort. He looks down at the ale horn in his hands and wonders if he wouldn’t be better off if he did as Bjorn said.

His heart is pounding and every sound feels like a hammer striking his head. It’s a small miracle he’s lasted this long, but when the girl is brought forward, he can’t stand it any longer. As he turns to leave Bjorn grabs his wrist. “Where are you going, priest?”

“I can’t watch.”

“What’s the matter? It’s only death.”

“I don’t want to stay.”

“You must, or Father will hear about it.” The boy’s grip is like a vice, but it’s unnecessary. The threat is enough to keep the slave in place. He scratches at his neck, swearing he can feel the phantom weight of the rope he’d once worn.

He can do nothing but watch in horror.

Ragnar has made his appearance. He watches, impassive as Siggy approaches. He could give her the privilege of lighting the pyre, but he feels it would be ill advised. He’s been generous enough with this funeral already and he needs to maintain control. He holds the torch for a moment before passing it to the man beside her.

He is surprised to see his priest still among the crowd. He is more so when he sees what looks like reproach in the man’s eyes. The frown on his face only deepens when the man Ragnar has chosen sets the pyre ablaze.

Athelstan disappears and he doesn’t see him again until evening.

Food and drink have been plentiful. Alcohol has called many to sleep and there is finally some real quiet. He finds Athelstan outside. The priest doesn’t look at him. His muscles are taut and Ragnar can tell from the brightness of his eyes that he has not indulged as most have.

“Priest.”

Even when he speaks, Athelstan doesn’t turn to look at him. It’s been a long day—too long for Ragnar to have the patience to try to figure out his slave. He takes hold of the priest’s chin and turns his head. Eyes narrow and he exhales sharply, but otherwise Athelstan doesn’t resist.

“Bjorn told me you wanted to leave.” He sighs. “He shouldn’t have used my name to force you.” It’s not an apology, but it may be as close to one as Ragnar will ever get. Still, the priest doesn’t speak, so he feels compelled to fill the silence. “You should know, I’d not have beaten you if you did leave.”

“Should I have?”

Finally, his silence is broken. Athelstan’s voice is quiet, but there’s danger there all the same. The priest runs a hand through his hair and turns his head away. He gives it a little shake. Then he licks his lips in the way he does when he’s trying to gather his thoughts. His priest doesn’t often speak without thinking. As much as Ragnar appreciates his intelligence, it makes him utterly exhausting.

“Why did you not allow Siggy to light the pyre?”

Ragnar tilts his head. There is more to this. There must be—his priest doesn’t even know Siggy. Why should he care what happened between them? He is slow to answer, but finally, he says, “Siggy needs to know her place. I am Earl now. Everything she has, she possesses because I allow it to be so. I needed to make a statement. I couldn’t risk people thinking I’m too soft.”

At first, Athelstan’s only response is a thoughtful hum. Then he meets Ragnar’s eyes. “And is that why you showed me the slave girl? To ensure that _I_ don’t forget how expendable slaves are to you, lest I forget _my_ place?” He lets out a frustrated huff as his mouth twists into a bitter grimace. “Do I— Does _anyone_ mean anything to you Ragnar? Truly? Or are we all just pawns in a game none of us have even agreed to play?”

Ragnar doesn’t answer. He’s too tired for this, so he redirects. “I owe you a great debt. You saved my life. I know it was you who pulled me from the water, and I’ve not yet thanked you for it.” The quiet scoff tells him this isn’t what Athelstan wants to hear. His men are easy—promises of glory, riches, and battle suffice to please them. His priest craves none of those things, and Ragnar isn’t sure he’ll ever really understand him. “A life for a life. You saved mine, and so I will give you yours. You will have your freedom.”

“No.”

“No?” The word comes out a low growl. The abundance of ale he’s consumed stokes the anger, growing the ember into a billowing flame. “What do you mean, ‘no,’ Priest?” His voice grows louder, his hands balling into fists.

“I mean, no,” the priest returns. His eyes are like flint. His features are deceptively calm, or they would be to one who doesn’t know him. Ragnar can see the way his shoulders have risen with tension and the effort he takes to force himself to draw in deep, measured breaths. If Ragnar’s anger is a raging inferno, his priest’s holds all the hidden danger of a frozen lake.

His master isn’t a man accustomed to being denied. He can see not only the anger, but confusion mounting. He hears the snarl of, “Priest,” on Ragnar’s lips and cuts him off before he can say anything else.

“I’ve no house. I’m a poor hunter at best and I’ve very few skills that are worth anything here.” He tilts his head and asks, “If you do as you say, how shall I support myself?” His tone is almost conversational with hardly a trace of his own anger. Whereas his master’s gods feed on violence and impulsive quests for gratification, his own has taught him restraint and composure. It’s a lesson that serves him well now.

“You want land? Is that it? Fine, I’ll give you a farm.” His lips twist into an ugly sneer. “Unless you now think yourself too good to farm?” He’s trying to provoke a reaction. Ragnar is accustomed to dealing with hot tempered men like himself. He wants Athelstan to lash out in a way that’s familiar to him, but the monk will not yield.

“Right, of course,” he agrees, nodding his head. “Because you are Earl now, and you can do such things.” He takes a beat, perhaps letting his master thing he’s been won over. But then he lifts his chin, holding his master’s gaze with a confidence that seems out of place on the usually timid man. “But, then, _everything I have, I possess only because you allow it to be so_ ,” he turns his master’s words back on him. His master opens his mouth to argue, but Athelstan doesn’t allow it. “This is all just part of the game, isn’t it? I would be no less beholden to you then than I am now, and you know it. Freeing me now is easy for you, because functionally it changes nothing. It means nothing to you.”

His master slaps him. Rather than cowing the slave, it only bolsters his argument. For all his pretty promises, that isn’t the action of a man speaking to an equal. He still behaves as a master putting a slave in his place. True, as a free man Ragnar would no longer have the power to kill him on a whim, but Athelstan no longer believes his master would do such a thing. Ragnar is violent and selfish man, but he isn’t stupid. At least, not most of the time.

To his credit, Ragnar seems to have realized his mistake. He doesn’t apologize, that would simply be too much to ask. He is also too tenacious to let the matter drop. “Is this not what you wanted? To be a free man?”

“It is.” Athelstan remains outwardly calm as Ragnar uses his own words against him. “But things change.” It isn’t that he doesn’t still crave freedom. He simply understands that what his master offers now isn’t freedom in any meaningful way. And right now, there is something else he has decided he wants more.

“Then what _do_ you want, slave?”

He doesn’t allow himself to be goaded. He knows to do so would mean to relinquish control, and he isn’t ready to hand the reins back to Ragnar so easily. “On your last raid, you sacked a church. You killed the priest.” His master’s lips thin and the look in his eye speaks of danger, but Athelstan doesn’t let himself be swayed by fear. “He was unarmed and would not have harmed you, yet you killed him anyway.”

“And so?” Ragnar spits out the question. He feels no remorse and wants to throw it in his slave’s face.

Athelstan takes another measured breath and consciously shrugs his shoulders and rolls his neck to drive the tension from his muscles. “And so, you will sail west again. I accept that I cannot stop you. If what you offer is a life for a life, then I ask not for _my_ life, but for the life of a brother in Christ. You will come upon another church, with another priest. I ask that you do not kill the priest, nor take him as a slave. Take what gold and silver you will, but spare him his life. What I _ask_ , Ragnar Lothbrock, is mercy for people who mean you no harm.”

“You’re being stupid.”

“You are free to think so.”

He sees his master’s fingers twitching. He wants to strike again, but for now he restrains himself. It’s a small thing, but it gives Athelstan hope. God help him, he cares for this man, despite knowing he ought not to. Perhaps Ragnar may yet prove him wrong and show the monk that there is something in him that can still be redeemed.

Of all the stupid shit the priest has done, Ragnar thinks this must be the most infuriating. No law had obligated him to offer the man his freedom. Or anything, really. He could have just as easily dismissed the debt, as it was he who chose to spare the slave’s life at Lindisfarne. He’s rewarded with his show of generosity repudiated. And for what? For the life of a man the priest has never so much as laid eyes on before?

“How will you even know, hmm? What is to stop me from killing whoever I wish and simply not telling you?”

“Are you not a man of your word? I suppose I shall just have to trust you.”

“And what of my men? You would have me seem weak to them, all for a promise made to a slave?”

“Yes.”

The blunt and simple answer is more than Ragnar can take. He strikes the priest a second time. In another time and another place, the reproach in the other man’s eyes might have made him regret it. Tonight, it does not. He is angry. Too angry. “Why? I have offered you your life, and you dare refuse? Perhaps I ought to kill you now.” He hits the priest again. He wants a reaction. Anger. Violence, perhaps. The other man’s composure in the face of his fury only serves to fan the flames. But Athelstan simply lifts a hand to his face to touch his red and stinging cheek. He is angry. He must be. But he still chooses not to submit to it, instead gathering it within himself to be contained.

“You are free to do with me as you like, but if what I have done for you means anything at all, you will do as I ask. Take my life if it pleases you. Have your blood that way if you must. But I ask for mercy on the next church you raid.” His priest holds firm. The stubbornness he sees in Athelstan’s face is his own, reflected back at him as if through a mirror.

A snarl is pulled from his lips.

“Granted,” he sneers, about as graceful in his concession as Earl Haraldson had been when he asked to keep the priest as his payment for their voyage. Some small part of him wonders if he hadn’t appeared to the former Earl exactly as his priest appears to him now. “But because I am generous, I will give you time to consider. You are free to change your mind and claim your freedom at any point before we leave for our next raid.”

“I thank you, but that is not necessary.”

Both of them know it. The priest’s mind is made up, and he will not be swayed from his foolishness.

“My God has taught me much of the true meaning of His grace and compassion since you brought me here. It is my belief that He means for me to share what I have learned.”

Ragnar stands, but before leaving he vents his anger by kicking his priest. Athelstan doesn’t complain. He offers nothing but cold determination as he watches his master depart. He snarls something unintelligible about the audacity of the slave.

The Viking’s humor doesn’t improve the next day. The angry bruise his master’s boot left on his side might have motivated a smarter man to lay low and give him a wide berth. For some of the day, Athelstan does. There’s certainly enough to do in Kattegat to keep him occupied and away from his master’s side. None would fault him for it, either.

He knows most see him as a coward. Ragnar’s trembling pet, who flinches at an unexpected touch and who wouldn’t have the first idea of what to do with an axe, even were he allowed to wield one. Coming from a world that values denial of the self, charity, and patience, Athelstan is, by all appearances, incredibly weak in all the ways that matter to the heathens. Still, he doesn’t hide away. Come evening, he is in the Great Hall, along with everyone else.

The journey is underway and Athelstan is too stubborn and too willful to abandon it now. So the priest laughs and celebrates with his master’s friends and embraces the decadence of their lives as if entirely unafraid. He even embraces his own curiosity. “What is Ragnarök?” It isn’t the first time he’s asked, and as usual the question is met with silence.

He feels his master’s eyes boring through him, but he doesn’t stop. Ragnar has tested him, pushing and pulling and prodding. Athelstan isn’t blind to the way the man has been methodically taking the measure of his temperament through his captivity here. Now he pushes back, testing his master in similar fashion. “I’ve heard it mentioned a few times, but no one will explain what it means.”

There’s a dark amusement in Ragnar’s eyes as he lets loose a malicious laugh. “You really want to know?” He scoffs, spurring more laughter at the monk’s expense. “Very well! Let us sate the curiosity of my ignorant Christian.” He doesn’t flinch away from the contempt in his master’s voice.

Ragnar is a proud man, and Athelstan has hurt that pride. It would have been foolish not to expect some kind of retribution. It comes as his lungs fill with smoke and he finds himself choking on it. He’s disoriented and can’t seem to make his eyes focus. Bodies move around him, warm and much too close as the Seer recounts the way the world is to end. Athelstan coughs and heaves, struggling to catch his breath.

Through it all, his master simply watches. His lips curl in disdain and the glittering of his eyes seems to ask _are you sorry yet?_

His eyes are watering and although he can’t summon enough air to speak, he holds the Viking’s gaze as best as he can.

Still, Athelstan does not yield.

Nor will he yield in the days and weeks to follow as his master prepares for yet another voyage. He allows himself to be ordered about and insulted whenever Ragnar sees fit to turn his temper on his slave. All told, he bears it with a remarkable grace that impresses his master, even if Ragnar will never admit to it. The ships are loaded and this, he is warned, is his final chance to claim his freedom.

He does not. He simply sees his master off and then tends to his duties while awaiting Ragnar’s return.

And return he does, with his boats laden with gold and silver and all manner of riches. It’s a bounty fit for a king, and yet this time there are no slaves. Still, it isn’t his master’s stories the priest wants to hear. Instead, he listens to the tales of their voyage weaved by the other men who’d accompanied Ragnar. It isn’t until he hears Rollo complain that their Earl has gone soft and bemoan the lack of bloodshed in the church that Athelstan looks to his master and greets him with warmth in his eyes and a gentle smile on his lips.


End file.
